


Against all odds

by andrassysribcage



Category: NaPolA | Before the Fall (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, finally posting this j f c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrassysribcage/pseuds/andrassysribcage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two words were all it took in the end. A simple name, common and light on the tongue. A name he'd learned to hate before he even knew the man behind it, a man he vowed to avoid at all costs if they ever happen to cross paths. And now that very man was standing before him, golden and breathtaking, and Albrecht was absolutely, positively fucked.<br/>(Albrecht/Friedrich, soulmates AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating will probably go up in later chapters. This is a soulmate AU of the "people wake up with their soulmate's name on their wrist" variety. I have no idea what forced me to write this, but here it is! Special thanks to tumblr user nizan164 for the title and tumblr user kingcooks for reading this whole thing through before I posted it, you're the best!!  
> Um, yeah. The first chapter is kinda really uneventful, I'm sorry. But do stick around!

On the 28th of August, 1942., Albrecht Stein woke up with an intense feeling of nausea and exhaustion, pinning it first to the fact that he stayed up fairly late last night, engrossed in a book, and then brushing it off as a common cold, seeing as his immune system has never been particularly strong anyway. He had doubts about it, of course, a part of his mind constantly telling him that he was very wrong, but he decided to ignore it- something that he's become increasingly good at- and stay in for the day, letting his mother take care of him. She was distant, yes, but still a good, respectable mother, a loyal wife and a modest woman. And she cared about him more than his father did, if nothing else.

He sat up, the ancient bed creaking under him, wanting to sprint- or, to be more realistic, wobble slowly- downstairs and announce that he wishes to be left undisturbed for the day. He shifted his weight to his right side, a sudden sharp pain in his wrist making his muscles go slack, and he pulled his hand back reflexively, falling back down to the mattress. Albrecht raised his arm up, freeing it from the covers, to inspect his wrist. Perhaps, he tried to think rationally, it was broken. How the hell did he manage to break it then? In his sleep? And if it wasn't broken after all, what could cause so much pain anyway?  
Grabbing his relaxed right arm with his left hand, he turned it around to get a better look at his wrist. Good God, what on Earth was that? He instinctively covered his mouth in astonishment, letting his right fall slowly on the soft covers. 

 _Friedrich Weimer_ was written on it in neat cursive, thin black lines snaking around his wrist, as if they had always been there, as if he had placed them here himself, with intent and purpose. If he were to be honest, it looked nothing like his own handwriting- too artistic, reminding him of old calligraphy he saw in a book once, and not his own orderly script- and the only logical explanation he could find is that he wrote it down himself, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning when his mind was muddy and his conscience slipping away from him, hanging from a thread. He had no idea who this Friedrich Weimer was, or why he wrote his name down in the first place; regardless of what it was, he had to get it out as soon as possible.

He stood up –leaning on his left side this time- with quite a bit of effort, slipping on his house shoes and staggering over to the door. He pushed as slowly as possible, the damn thing always creaked at the most inconvenient of times, and he snuck out to one of the bathrooms closest to him. It was far too small by his father's standards, but he liked it that way- cozy and not excessive, unlike everything else in this godforsaken house. He turned the tap on and swallowed, bracing himself for the icy water about to engulf his wrist. It was far, far too early to be subjecting himself to this. He had no choice, however, and as the first suspicions of an illness or lack of sleep cleared from his mind, he thrust his wrist forward into the cold stream. A few drops flew to his cheek and he shuddered, clenching his teeth. As nothing seemed to happen to the writing adorning his skin, he reached for the half-used up bar of soap, figuring that should do the trick.

It didn't.

As soon as he started scrubbing, he felt as if the letters were burning even harder into his flesh, and the sharp stabs of pain were back again, making him withdraw his hand in reflex. He tried scratching at the markings, as if he could flay them off, and that just made it burn even more, his entire wrist red and pulsing. Albrecht took a shaky breath, turning the tap off with resignation and heading back to the door. It'll obviously take a lot of time before he manages to wash his late-night ink escapade off. He decided to ignore the pain setting deep in his muscles whenever he touched it with bad intentions, assuming it was because the water was too cold and he was too rough with his numbed fingers.

He walked down the corridor, treading as lightly as possible, and found himself in front of his bedroom again. He turned the doorknob, wanting to go inside to think things through properly, when an idea shone bright in his mind. If there is a possibility that this name appeared on his wrist on its own, he surely wasn't the first person in all of history to experience it. And so, instead of going back to the comfort of a warm bed and soft covers, he headed straight to his library, thankful that he didn't have to pass through the first floor to do that. His father was probably awake by now, and he truly wasn't in the mood to justify himself. Albrecht reached the room safely, incredibly glad that he hadn't ran into anyone on the way there- not a maid, not a servant, not his mother, no one. He pushed the doorknob and pulled, the old piece of wood making protesting noises at the movements. This was one of the oldest rooms in the house, and that's exactly why Albrecht favoured it over all others- it had a long history, steady breathing, telling its tale through scratched wood and yellowing paper, and it didn't take long for him to get used to its slow rhythm. It calmed him down, one might say. A space to call his own, his kingdom, his books and papers; an escape from his family, from the Academy, from society and its politics. He would spend hours at a time locked in, reading a book he stole from his father, or bought with his own allowance, or simply found in one of the numerous rooms of the villa. One of his most treasured books, however, was an old, tattered Torah he accidentally found in the basement and hid from his father at the top of the largest bookcase, nestled behind a row of heavy hardcovers. It was the only thing left from the previous owners, and he kept it partially in their honour, and partially out of his own selfish need for protest, for defiance. He was slightly ashamed of the latter, but he still kept the book and would refuse to get rid of it, no matter what.

He skimmed over the spines of books in the row closest to him with the tips of his fingers, gentle as ever, tilting his head and contemplating his situation for a moment. He had no idea what exactly was it that he's searching for, and he sincerely doubted he had a book called „Random names appearing on wrists during the night for dummies“. Where would he even start? Most of his books were either classical novels, poetry collections, historical books and documents- none of which had anything to do with the unexplainable. And the books that do- ones that he's heard talked about only in hushed whispers, 'degenerate' and 'disturbing', literature that ought to be burned and never read or written again- he had none of. Tapping his nails against a poor green copy of „Landscapes in rhyme“, he bit his lip, mentally going through all the books he knew he possessed and where he usually placed them. Nature poetry, first two rows. Obviously nothing to do with wrist names. After that, two cramped rows of philosophical books that somehow found their way in his poetry section instead of the philosophy bookcase, just so that he can keep them closer. Philosophy, however, is a lot less concrete than wrist names. Above it, a row of love poems, pushed shyly to the very back of the case. Most likely no wrist names there. Then poetry about the horrors of war, but not wrist names. The last two rows were filled by books he seldom read, stacked with no sense and order, collecting dust. Those he didn't completely remember, and he paced around the room, smiling to himself for thinking that they would somehow contain information about wrist names. Of course not, because that isn't something that happens in reality, he surely wrote it down himself, and then forgot about it. But something urged him to go on, and he approached the book case, the abandoned literature glaring at him, staring him down from above, displeased at the fact that he ignored them all for such a long time. Albrecht sighed and went to get the ladder, feeling that whatever it is he's doing right now will lead to absolutely nothing.

A cloud of dust flew from the shelf as the ladder collided with it, fluttering downwards slowly, and Albrecht was thankful that he wasn't allergic, because he would have probably been dead by now. He gripped the ladder and began climbing, careful not to slip or step too hard- the ladder was fairly old, and he didn't want to risk it. When he reached a desirable height, he looked through the books occupying the first of two rows, unable to find anything useful. A bible he hasn't looked at since he came here, something about military strategy, a cookbook- nothing concerning wrist name-matters. And the second row now... He turned around, looking at his library, at the towering bookcases and papers scattered all over. God, this would take an eternity. For a moment, he considered giving up and just living with having some man's name on his wrist, or perhaps scrubbing until it washed off, pain be damned, when he noticed a book he was fairly sure wasn't there before. Of course, he'd be lying if he said he knew precisely which books he has, but he definitely knows what he doesn't have- that is, didn't have until now. It was a slim purple hardcover with no writing on the spine whatsoever, and he reached for it and pulled it out, closely examining it and turning it around. It didn't look brand new- there was some clear signs of frequent usage- but it wasn't tattered, torn apart, or dog-eared anywhere. By the looks of it, in a pretty decent condition. Albrecht opened the first page. Blank. Second one looked pretty blank too, save for „Property of“ written in tiny script in the middle, but with no name filled out.

Turning the next page, the title „Soulmates“ greeted him, black lettering centered on the page in flowy cursive script which struck him as... familiar. Albrecht wasn't sure where he'd seen that before, but he knew, somehow, that he did. And the term 'soulmates' too, he's read about that before. He couldn't remember whose theory it was, but it went something along the lines of „humans are created whole, split when they come down to Earth, have to find their other half- their soulmate- to be whole“. Or so. He remembered only the main idea, and, as it didn't strike him as particularly interesting (or possible), he stored it away somewhere in his mind, not expecting to need it again. Perhaps this book was just an extension of that theory, with better explanations, added examples and expectations. Or perhaps it was meant to criticise the theory, make fun of it, mock the split humans and their endless search for wholeness, seemingly only achievable by committing to another person. He was about to flip the page- why guess if he can just find out?- when he heard a knock on the door, startling him, and he nearly dropped the mystery book and fell backwards. He cursed at the knocker inwardly, but put the book back anyway, and began his slow descend down the ladder, calling out an exasperated „Coming!“. Well, whoever was at the door wasn't so keen on waiting, because he heard them open and then close, sounds of heels clicking on wood in between. He finally turned to his left, wanting to identify the person disturbing his peace.

His mother was smiling at him from her place in front of the door, and it looked forced, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless. She was wearing a long pink dress- he's seen her in this one a few times before- and yes, heels, tapping against the floor whenever she moved. No matter how much makeup she put on, it did nothing to cover how exhausted she was. She stood there, though looked as she was barely standing, her usually straight back was slightly hunched and her hands hung limply at her sides, conveying nothing in particular. He couldn't see her expression in detail from the distance, but he already knew. He knew that look in her eyes he was sure she had, he saw it on her many times before, and he began seeing it on himself. Her entire being gave off an air of using up its last reserve of willpower, unable to perform any action but stand there, having so much to say, and being unable to say it. She has always been plagued with a particular kind of sadness, setting deep in her bones, empty from the core, desperately trying to pretend everything was alright and knowing it never could be. He figured it might be genetic.  
Albrecht jumped from the last step on the ground, not wanting to strain the ladder any more, and walked over to her.

„You weren't in your room,“ she said, quieter than usual, „so I thought you'd have to be here.“  
Another one of those smiles. He wanted to sigh, tell her that there's no need to pretend, to sugar-coat her indifference towards him. He didn't, of course, more for her sake than his.

„Good morning, mother,“ he replied instead, doing his best to sound at least a little more cheerful. He liked to imagine it helps, if nothing else, lighten the atmosphere a little. She looks down, takes a shaky breath, her attempted facade crumbling for a moment until she manages to compose herself again. He pretends not to notice, looks back at her and tries to smile reassuringly, wanting to leave no place for doubt in her mind. Her mouth was open and he could tell she wanted to say something, but held back for whatever reason.

„Look, darling, I'm just going to tell you right away.“ She sighs, brushing a stray strand of brown hair from her face. „I really don't have time for pleasantries, your father, you see, he's-“  
„Never mind,“ he cuts her off, not caring about whatever it is his father's up to. „Go on.“  
She takes another breath and looks at him, more determined than earlier.  
„Let me see your wrist, Albrecht.“ What?

He then realizes he was pressing it against his side subconsciously, afraid of what she might say if she saw. Then again, what could she say? He slipped up yesterday, it was late, he took an ink pen and doesn't know what got over him, and that's all there is to it. An accident. Which he didn't remember.

„My wrist?“ he questioned, voice slightly faltering. She then reaches out- much quicker than he would have expected- to grab his right wrist, pulling it towards her. The black lettering was still very much there, stark in contrast to his pale skin. Her brows furrow in confusion as she struggles to read the writing upside-down, trying to make out what the decorated writing spells.  
„Oh, that, that's nothing-“ he stammers, stumbling over his words, „Yesterday, I wrote that down with a pen because- because it's-“  
She looked straight at him, one eyebrow raised in doubt, and he went quiet. Hell, he didn't believe himself. How could his mother not see through him?

She walks around him, only the sound of her shoes tapping filling the silence, and goes to read it properly. She says nothing for a heartbeat, then two, then more, and he's beginning to regret the fact that he can't see her from this position. Why is it that important anyway? What are his evening scribbles to her?

„Fried... rich. Weimer.“ she reads, her voice barely louder than a whisper, and he tenses, wanting to pull his hand away. He knew this voice. He knew it, and it was not good. He swallows, wondering what to say. How to justify himself.  
What even is there to justify?

„Albrecht,“ she begins, slowly moving to face him again, and he can see her hands shake.  
„We need to talk.“

 

**

 

When Friedrich Weimer woke up on a merry morning at the end of August, he was fairly certain he'd throw up any minute now. His entire body was tense and he was shaking, hands fisted into the bedsheets to try and numb down the pain. God, if he had a fever again, his whole life was over. It was only his second workday at the coal factory, and he was absolutely forbidden from fucking this up, not after getting this far. He wasn't surprised that he caught some sort of stomach bug, considering the things his family is forced to eat sometimes, but he still wanted to send the whole world to hell for making it happen today. A whole year full of days ahead of him, and his insides are trying to come out through his mouth on the most important of them. He was enough of a burden to his family as it is, and this was his only chance to do something useful- earn money. Friedrich wanted to get up, he really did, but his entire body was against doing anything except lying here, writhing in pain.

For a split second he thought it was over, numbing down to just insistent pulsing, when he felt something stab his wrist. Something was piercing the hand which he worked with- yes, exactly what he needed right now. It didn't really surprise him, however- he's had this bed ever since he could remember, and it's understandable that it was falling apart by now. The damn thing creaked all the time, even the smallest of movements too much for it, there were splinters everywhere, and the headboard was just one loose nail from falling apart. He bit his lip, not wanting to cause too much commotion, what with the groaning and all, and slipped his right hand out from the covers to force whatever sharp implement lodged itself in his flesh out, praising Mary for making this horrible nausea end. Perhaps he could still work if he gets it out and concentrates the force on his left hand, or maybe it'll just stop eventually. He could definitely make it if he strained himself less. He braced himself for picking out slivers of wood out of his skin all morning and took a look at his wrist.  
The sight that greeted him was the only possibility he hadn't predicted.

The words _Albrecht Stein_ were written on his wrist in unfamiliar handwriting, dark lines curling around the letters, swirling over the scar he had there since he was five from an innocent attempt to bring daddy one of his favourite knives when he needed it. The pain completely ceased then, and he thanked God and everyone else involved, because he was most likely already late and he hadn't even gotten up to wash his face. He'd love to think about this thing- whatever it was- on his wrist, but at the moment there were more pressing matters, and he greeted them with open arms- a great distraction, and useful at that.

Friedrich stormed past his family straight to the bathroom, mumbling a quick „Mornin'!“ and slamming the door behind him, wanting to get dressed as fast as humanly possible. He had no idea what time it was- probably too late- and even though he rode his bicycle to work, it still took a while to get there. He threw his chosen clothing- the first clean shirt and pants that happened to be near- down on the floor and began undressing, getting tangled up in his pants and undershirt. Perhaps rushing so much wasn't a good idea. He put the pants on, and the shirt followed soon after. And since the entire goddamn universe was against him this morning, he struggled with the buttons that kept slipping out of his grip, going anywhere but the opening they're supposed to end up in. He reached for the comb, wanting to make his hair look a little more presentable, and as he extended his arm, his sleeve pulled up slightly, exposing the name burned into his skin. Shit. He couldn't go to work like this. The last thing he needed is Herr Mertens noticing something like that written on his arm- he'd surely tell him off for being inappropriate on the workplace and assume he's not washing himself properly. Herr Mertens was a difficult old man, always scrutinizing and nitpicking, paying his workers less than they deserve and humiliating them in the process. Friedrich, however, had no other choice, seeing as he couldn't magically make a living as a boxer when no one knew him- he always had the feeling he would never be good enough anyway- and Herr Mertens was the only employer willing to take him. His education, knowledge, and fine work skills didn't matter. As long as he could man the shovel for long enough and not mess up sorting coal, he's good to go. Speaking of which, he should really, really get going.

He decided to take care of the writing on his wrist the easiest way, having no time to scrub it off. It was written in ink of seemingly good quality, and would certainly take days- if not weeks- to completely wash off. Friedrich rushed to his closet and found an old shirt that was completely eaten up by moths, full of holes and absolutely unusable. When he neatly folded it and pushed it to the back of his closet, he thought he might need it for some reason. Today, it seems, was its time to shine. He pulled it out, not caring much about keeping it orderly, and spread it out on his bed. He tried to rip the end of the sleeve off in one swift motion, hoping the worn out textile would cave in right away.  
Of course it didn't.  
He gave it another quick, forceful tug and a few of the seams tore, allowing him to pull it off properly. Friedrich then tried to tie it around his wrist hastily, the fabric twisting around his left hand, but still unable to form a proper knot. The ends of the band escaped his fingers, slipping away, and he bit his lip in frustration, knowing that he can't ask anyone for help.  
After at least a good minute of seemingly useless efforts and frustrated noises, he made a half-decent knot, securing it on his wrist. He pushed the door open- not a difficult task, considering how the old lock was rusting badly, close to falling apart- and rushed out into the hall, taking a moment to glance at the clock on the wall. It was about half past five, Friedrich concluded, and he might even make it on time if he goes out right now. And he did exactly that, completely ignoring his entire family seated at the table in favour of sprinting out, straddling his bicycle and taking off, almost crashing into a lamp post and wooden plank in the process.

The rest of the ride went fairly well- he knocked only two people over- until he passed Frau Schulze's newspaper stand, a big, flashy headline catching his eye. ' ** _SOULMATES_**!' was written in bolded and italicized letters, clearly meant to be sensational news. Friedrich went to read the undertitle, managing to catch the words „A new“ before having to turn his head back to the road, hoping to keep the amount of people who tripped because of him as low as possible. He took a sharp turn and pedalled faster, the factory was already in sight and he was fairly certain he isn't too late. Nothing Herr Mertens couldn't excuse, that is. He hoped.

He almost jumped off his bike, throwing it far too carelessly to the side, and ran up to the factory. Herr Mertens was not, in fact, outside waiting for him to beat him up for being late, which meant he was fine. As he went to push the doorknob, the textile covering his wrist caught his eye again. Hopefully it won't be too much of a nuisance. He vowed to think about it, and perhaps even buy that silly newspaper from Frau Schulze, but later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited second chapter. Thank you all for sticking around!  
> Special thanks to tumblr user aceiel for the amazing, thorough beta and tumblr user kingcooks for reading my first draft of this thing. You guys are the best.

„And that's it,“ she says, punctuating her words with a slightly harder press of the pen on his skin. He grits his teeth as another shock of pain goes through, breathing in, still unable to tear his gaze from his own wrist. The name that used to adorn it in smoothly flowing black script was now absolutely unreadable, reddening skin covered with equally as black scribbles and dots and swirls and letters, probably, he assumed- it was all so cramped that Albrecht was unable to make any sense of it, despite watching his mother create it. He bit his lip, thinking it might ease the throbbing (it didn't), or at least distract him from his current situation (it didn't). The drying ink glistened on his skin and he frowned, breathing deep, unable to shake off the feeling that something is incredibly wrong. He gave up instead and let it settle in the pit of his stomach, making the stretching silence seem endless, making the paint feel like poison. He swallowed his doubts and dared himself to look up.  
His mother was just as expressionless as she was most of the time, but he knew better than that, knew where to look for the cues, the subtle changes in her face, he knew better than his father and better than anyone else. Her tight-lipped mouth was curled slightly downwards and the wrinkles around her eyes were telling, more than she would ever admit. He noticed the silent hate she must have been harbouring, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't understand. After all, it seems he was... well. It didn't come a surprise to him, adding it up the list of things that make him undeserving of life, but it seemed to shake his mother more than he thought it would. As if this was some sort of confirmation of it, a wax seal, a formal letter signed by Hitler himself. Congratulations, Frau Stein, it is official- your son is a failure.

„And remember,“ his mother finally spoke, her words echoing in his brain, „Write your father's name, and then my name, and then do whatever you want, but please- please, remember.“  
Albrecht nodded, more on reflex than in agreement. There was nothing he could do against it anyway, nothing he would allow himself to do. It was all for his own good, after all.  
„If anyone asks, you tell them she, _she_ died. Understood?“  
He nods again, not particularly feeling like saying anything. What was there to say? His entire existance seemed to be just a waste of breath.  
His mother looks him in the eye for the first time in a while, and he ponders over how ironic that is for a moment, how she's paying attention to him in the very moment he'd like to disappear. He looks away.  
„But don't do, don't do anything... sinful,“ she finishes, and he could almost taste her discomfort on his tongue, feeling as if had to pull the nails of that word out of her one by one by one. He doesn't nod this time. His wrist still hurts. His mother says nothing.

She gets up and leaves, heels still clicking, leaving him sitting under a desk lamp alone. Holding his wrist out with his sleeve still rolled up, he waited for the metaphorical blade that his current state seemed to offer him. It never comes, in the end, and Albrecht isn't sure whether he regrets it or not. The ink isn't glistening anymore and he sighs, letting this strange feeling wash over him, this tug in his chest upon seeing the mess of lines on his wrist that used to be such beautiful script, such a beautiful name.

**

Two days later, Friedrich Weimer finds himself standing in front of his new mirror in his new room wearing his new uniform and this new kind of smile on his face doesn't express his emotions as strongly as he feels them. He takes in his own body, his posture, the way the black cloth folds in some places where his frame doesn't quite fill the slightly oversized uniform. He looks up at his face, the wrinkles around his eyes- he could almost see the joy in them, the grin on his face, that one lock of hair that is always out of place no matter what he does about it- Any traces of embarrassment or hesitation he might have once felt at expressing his loyalty to the party simply dissipate, wash away, and he looks around before raising his hand in a salute, palm open and arm outstretched, again and again and again. This is precisely what he was doing this, all of this for: a higher cause. An idea, no, an ideal, something no one could (would, should, _will_ ) ever take away from him.

The words „welcome to Allenstein“ echoed in his head as he turned to leave, too caught up in the whirlwind of excitement and youthful joy to truly pay attention to his surroundings. He halts, just for a brief moment, just enough to remember the knick-knacks he brought back from home and stuffed into his locker (top right, neat and orderly). Stopping in his tracks and looking back, he reaches to pull a photograph out from where he hid it under a box, pretending he didn't know what it was. Friedrich lets the memories wash over him for a moment, allows a sliver of regret to slither into his heart, his mother's eyes and his brother's smile reminding him of all he was leaving behind, all the people his departure disappointed, all the people who seemed to care. For a brief moment, the silliest thought enters his head- he remembers Frau Schulze and her newspaper stand, remembers the flashy, capitalized headline and the cloth wrapped around his wrist, and he can't help but laugh at it all. Seems like he's just caught up in the moment, nothing else. He turns the photograph around a few times, trying to call his father's voice back to memory, but something won't let him. He swallows, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding- and then it's over, just like that. He hastily puts it away for the sake of forgetting about it, turns around on his heel and heads out.

He passes through the wide corridors, descends down the stairs, and he can already hear the chatter from all the way up here. The large room unravels in front of him, most of it obscured by hundreds- or was it thousands? He couldn't say visual math was his strength- of young men clad in black, just like him, sitting and talking amongst themselves, voices faltering and laughter rising in anticipation. Friedrich seeks out a place and sits down, between two friendly-looking boys somewhere in the middle row. Not a moment passes and all the others are standing up, he tags along, trying his best to react quickly enough. He couldn't say he had many experiences with gatherings like this, and that just served to heighten his childish excitement over the unknown. The others sang, he followed, and finally, Friedrich Weimer felt like he was there where he truly belonged.

**

Christoph Schneider rolls his sleeve up, shows him the writing on his wrist- _soul marks_ is what he said they call them- and Friedrich raises an eyebrow. The words **Doris Mayfield** are written in stocky, bold print, stark and noticeable against the boy's arm. He frowns, forgetting for a moment that his newfound friend is watching him. That's most certainly not a German name, he thinks, but then he sees Christoph grinning, nudging him, as if expecting a congratulatory comment of sorts, and decides to let it go. Friedrich drapes an arm over his shoulders- the option that seemed most appropriate at the time- and tries to appear friendly.

„I'm sure she's amazing.“ The _although not German_ is left unsaid, hanging in the air, giving the atmosphere a bitter aftertaste.

„Yeah,“ Christoph nods, and pulls his sleeve down. „But don't mention it to the others too much, okay? They like to tease me about that.“

Friedrich snorts but nods anyway, remembering all the times Christoph waved pictures of his sister in front of Hefe's nose or laughed at poor Tjaden, whose soul mark doesn't mirror his hopeless crush on Katarina from the kitchen. He could keep promises, he mused, leaning against the wall.

„What about you, though?“ comes Christoph's voice, completely casual, and Friedrich tenses. „You've never shown us yours, you know.“

„Ah, about that-„

Shit. Friedrich knew this'd have to come eventually, and he always thought he'd be ready for it, except now, when he's sure he's not. He grits his teeth, a bit harder than necessary. Christoph looks at him, innocent and evidently confused, and Friedrich swallows. He wracks his brain for an answer, an excuse, something, and comes up with only incoherent muttering and sideways glances.

„I, uh, I don't have one,“ finally tumbles out of his mouth, and he's pleased by Christoph's change of expression, from cheeky to solemn, understanding, and he decides to push it further.  
„I mean, I guess I was just born broken,“ he says, and he knows it isn't fair to say things like that when they're not true, but... in a way, this one is.

Christoph is still staring at him, mouth slightly agape, and he suddenly puts a hand on his shoulder. He grips slightly, pursing his lips in a tight line and nodding for no apparent reason.

„It's alright,“ he whispers, „I'm sure you'll find love someday anyway.“

Friedrich wants to laugh at the irony of it all, wants to say _no, no, you don't understand, I don't_ want _to meet him_ , but he remains silent. Christoph's arm drops and he evidently drops the subject, going on about some or other thing Peiner said the other day and Friedrich can't help but sign in relief. He gets by, he thinks. He gets by.

„Anyway, shouldn't we go back inside?“ Christoph tries, pretending to cough. Friedrich nods and follows him, not saying a word.

**

Something drew his gaze towards the empty bed to his left. Anticipation, perhaps. Curiosity? Whatever it was, that same something drew him out of the covers, down to the floor, up on his feet, tapping, slowly, slowly, towards the window.

**

The castle towered above him, its entire facade monotonously grey, basking in the moonlight. The windows were too small, as were the towers and the door and the bricks and he felt like he might suffocate, about to be confined in another awful school, a metaphorical prison that couldn't quite hold him without tying him down. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. It's not his first time stepping on the yard of a new school, it won't be his last. Just like in Potsdam and Berlin and Wahlstatt. The same thing, over and over again. The same thing, thanks to the ambitious Gauleiter Stein and his just as ambitious ability to suck up to his superiors.  
He took another look around, trying to notice _something_ that makes this school any different from all the others. It wasn't particularly big nor beautifully adorned, and he was slightly taken aback at how completely average it seemed. Not that it mattered- he'll be out of it in a month anyway, pulled into a whirlwind of his father's Wehrmacht adventures again. He took a step forward, cautiously, and was greeted by a tall man in a uniform who extended his arm towards him, grunting out a name Albrecht didn't care to remember.

„Albrecht Stein,“ he said, nodding, and pulled away from the man's grip. He stepped to the side, leaving the socializing to his father, and resolved to just stand here, hands behind his back. He tapped his foot against the ground lightly, trying to amuse himself without making much noise and he took in his surroundings, turning to the left and the right and left again, but found absolutely nothing of interest. Albrecht looked down at his feet and a tiny plant growing between the cracks in the concrete  caught his eye, reminding him of some metaphor or other about life and perseverance he read somewhere.  
His father calling his name shakes him from his thoughts and he follows him inside silently, wanting to sneak into his new bedroom and in his new bed as soon as possible. Sleeping, as it turned out, was the best thing in this whole 'elite school' ordeal.

They go through a few corridors, up some stairs, turn a few times, and Albrecht doesn't even try to remember the way back. He felt as if his legs were about to give up on him, bending slightly at the knees even tough he tried to keep them straight. He salutes his father's companions and enters the shared room, stumbling slightly. He felt as if someone has stuffed his mind with cotton, perhaps, because everything was hazy and he wasn't completely in control of his own movements anymore- but enough to fall face-down onto his bed, it seemed, paying no mind to his slumbering comrades.

**

He dreams of someone's smile. He dreams of lips he adores just because of the person they belong to, dreams of closed blue eyes and a tuft of blonde hair brushing against eyelashes, of sunlight caressing the edge of someone's cheek, asking for permission, he dreams of fingers intertwined with his, holding his hand, black letters on their wrists pressing together.

When Von Jaucher's screaming fills the room and Albrecht is forcibly dragged out of the safe hold of his dreams, fragments of their subject still linger in the back of his consciousness. For a moment he wonders what happened to those hands, anchoring him back to some other plane of existence, but then that slips from his mind too and only warmth is left. He forces himself up and his chores click back into plan one, and he hurries, throwing the covers to the side and pushing himself up. He feels as if he's late to something very important and he rushes to put on his uniform, movements purely automatic after years and years of the same morning routine. If the buttons slip from his numbed fingers a few times he thinks nothing of it. The fabric feels familiar enough that he barely registers it anymore.

By the time he enters the room most of the other boys are finished and he makes way towards his bed, positioning his pillow, straightening his sheets and folding the blanket. He counts the steps in his head, something his mother advised him to do to keep his mind busy. Finally, Albrecht smoothes down his masterpiece and turns to go, when he sees a flash of yellow in the corner of his eye and hears the tell-tale rustling of fabric being handled by clumsy hands.

„Friedrich, hurry up!“ he heard another boy call, and he assumed the voice was referring to the blond currently fumbling with the green blanket, obviously unsure where to make the crease. Albrecht would normally wonder what he's doing here if he can't make his bed, but there was something about this- what was his name again? Franz or so?- that made him feel a strange sort of understanding, or forgiveness, perhaps. And that strange feeling pushed him to take a step, to approach the boy who stepped out of the way politely. He looked at him, as if asking for permission, and when the other said nothing, Albrecht turned towards the bed, taking a moment to think about his face, his symmetric proportions and marvellous eye colour and golden hair framing his face, wrapping up the whole 'picture-perfect Aryan' look. For a moment, he felt envious, recognizing that this is the sort of son his father wanted, blond and blue-eyed and beautiful. The bit of rationality tells him that no, that doesn't have to be true, you don't know the man, he could look nice and still be a terrible example of a proper German. He promptly ignores that part, having the impression that his inexperienced comrade truly has the personality to match. He then realized he was getting distracted for a moment and he shook himself awake, straightening the edge of the blanket and smoothening it out, stepping back to check if everything is as it should be.

„Thanks,“ the other replied, and his smile felt familiar. It also happened to be one of the most beautiful smiles Albrecht had ever seen, but he'd never acknowledge that thought, pushing it back with all the others. He turns towards him, smoothing down the last crease.

„No problem,“ he replies, „I learned this at my previous school.“ It was more of a formality than anything else, but his roommate grinned at him anyway. There was a certain kindness to him, certain promise of softness in his rough, clumsy hands, something much deeper seemed to be nestled behind those bright, naive eyes. He'd make a fine soldier, no doubt- if Albrecht were to judge this complex book by its cover, to ignore the numerous ink-stained pages and just focus on the gilded leather binding holding them in place, he might just think of him as loyal. Loyal, yes, and courageous, definitely- but also gullible, easily influenced. Perhaps not exactly the soldier the Reich asked for, but definitely the soldier the Reich needs.

He lets himself get lost in his thoughts for a moment, playing out the life story of the man before him in his head, as imaginary and hypothetical as it was. For all he knew, they could both be dead by tomorrow, and a part of him didn't care as much as it should. He then remembers, remembers where he is and who he's with, his roommate probably thinks him strange for not saying anything for so long-

„I'm Albrecht Stein,“ he says, and the blond goes to shake his hand, stopping midway upon hearing his name, but he pushes forwards anyway- his grasp is firm, Albrecht notices, despite his initial hesitation. His calloused fingers lingered on the back of Albrecht's hand, and if he weren't the way he was, he might have just believed it was intentional. But it couldn't have been, and he makes sure to crush any and all slivers of hope from his heart the moment they appeared- _friendly_ and _friend_ were not synonyms, and sometimes he simply couldn't tell them apart.  
His roommate still seems happy, expression open and inviting, and if his smile faltered for a moment upon hearing Albrecht's name, it might have been because he's heard of his father, the absent Gauleiter with high standards and higher expectations.

„My name's Friedrich. Um, Friedrich Weimer,“ the words stumble out of his mouth, and Albrecht's entire world comes crashing down.

**Author's Note:**

> There we go. I hope you enjoyed reading this mess! In case you wanna hang out, I'm albrechtweimer on tumblr. You can leave comments and kudos and whatever it is if you'd like!


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